


to the dawn

by audiopilot



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Barebacking, Crossdressing, Dirty Talk, Kink Meme, M/M, Porn, Rimming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-09-30
Updated: 2011-09-30
Packaged: 2017-10-24 00:05:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,041
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/256603
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/audiopilot/pseuds/audiopilot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Tell me how it feels," Eames says, wanting more than touch.</p>
            </blockquote>





	to the dawn

**Author's Note:**

> For the [inception_kink prompt](http://community.livejournal.com/inception_kink/756.html?thread=990964#t990964): Arthur crossdresses, whether by Eames' request, or Eames discovering Arthur happens to enjoy this. OP is particular to a corset and garters, or a babydoll style slip, but would be happy with any sort of crossdressing.

The job is an easy one that pays fairly well and, by all rights, the two of them should either be out celebrating in a bar somewhere or already resting up before an early morning flight. Instead they check in at a hotel nice enough to satisfy Arthur, but one that doesn't require reservations to obtain a room. It's the beginning of an October night, a scant few stars just flickering awake and peeking through wispy clouds, and when their hands brush in the lift Arthur's fingers are still cold. Eames attempts to catch his eye in the mirrored walls but Arthur's gaze is resolute, watching the floor numbers tick by.

When they exit Eames follows Arthur, one hand drifting low on his back and even through the many layers of Arthur's suit and coat Eames feels something off. Arthur doesn't move away when Eames traces the odd bunching beneath his palm, only glances side-along with an unreadable look, providing nothing. They continue to their room, neither speaking, and Eames is attuned to the soft sounds of their steps against the carpet, the muted noise of a television behind one of the doors they pass by, the creak of Arthur's roll-away. He refuses to take his hand off Arthur's back, using the other to slide the key card and hold the door open, shifting his pack on his shoulder.

"After you, darling."

Arthur says nothing, going straight to the dresser. He bends strangely to lay his suitcase atop it and the way he lifts it sparks a suspicion in Eames mind. He lets the door close behind him.

Something about the faint light coming in from the windows, the quiet pull of a zipper as Arthur rummages through his things, the smell of fresh linen, it all keeps Eames silent. It feels entirely real, but he reaches into his pocket anyway to feel a round and familiar edge.

"Still dressed?" Arthur murmurs, disappearing into the suite bathroom, letting the door close until only a thin stream of light cuts through the darkened room. Eames wants to laugh, wants to turn around and leave, wants to follow Arthur in there. He realizes he's standing in the middle of the room, pack still slung over his shoulder, and goes to set it down, strip off his coat, shirt and shoes. He wanders to the windows, taking in the view of the city lights cradled in the sloping shadows of the surrounding hills. He feels off, like he's missed a step and then another. Like when Arthur pushes him off one of his beloved paradoxes, the little shit. He can't find the moon anywhere in the sky. His hand itches.

He slips his totem out of his pocket, places it on the left nightstand in a glass tumbler and flicks on the lamp before sitting on the bed. Eames closes his eyes, trying to shake it off. He rubs at the back of his neck. The damn chairs they'd slept in gave him a crick.

He's just relaxing when Arthur returns, not even glancing at Eames before he begins to methodically undress. Trousers and waistcoat over the back of a chair and his belt and watch on the desk. There's the double-clink of his cuff links against the varnished wood and his shirt neatly folded on the seat, then he's bending stiffly to untie his shoes. Eames mouth is suddenly, astoundingly dry.

Arthur's pants are black and tight and his undershirt a white, ribbed cotton that might as well be translucent for all it does to cover the dark and solid thing wrapped around Arthur's waist. The end of it peeks out below his hips, connects with twin solid lines that attach to the start of black stockings at the mid-thigh and taper down, down long legs to where Arthur is slipping off his shoes. Eames has been half-hard since their fingers touched on the way up, but now he feels all his blood draw down, cock heavy as he presses the heel of his hand to it.

Arthur straightens carefully, turns to look at Eames watching him. His mouth is a flat line and on anyone else it would be disapproving but, as Arthur's default expression (around Eames, anyway) is as if he's tasted something sour, on Arthur it's something else. Eames doesn't know what he looks like-- doesn't know anything at all, apparently-- but whatever Arthur sees in Eames' expression, it draws him closer.

The corset, for that's what it damn well is, is fastened tight around his waist and goes from hip-line to halfway up his ribcage. Eames can clearly see his nipples under that white cotton. He clears his throat to cover an involuntary gasp, but Arthur's not fooled and steps between Eames' spread legs, reaching down to touch his forearm and making the hair raise up as he lightly traces a line up Eames' bicep to settle on his shoulder. He moves closer still, and the hush of Arthur's stockings against Eames' trousers makes his cock jump under where Eames is now holding it. Arthur looks straight down at him, his other hand fitting behind the hinge of Eames' jaw, thumbing the lobe of his ear. Eames shivers.

"Do you like it, Mr. Eames?" Arthur asks. He's almost smiling, the corners of his eyes just starting to wrinkle. Eames wants to draw him down and kiss them, and then to mouth over the Orion's belt of moles across his right cheek down to that mouth until it's red and wet.

Eames grunts some kind of affirmative, his hands flying to Arthur's hips, bunching up the shirt high on his chest until his nipples are bared. Underneath, the corset is slick enough to be wet, soft and without adornment. Exquisitely simple, yet effective as a kick in shocking Eames up out of his skin. His pants are near painfully tight and he can't help but rock a little, against nothing.

"Do you wear this all the time?" Eames wonders, brings his mouth to one nipple, kissing it close-mouthed.

"Answering a question with a question?" Arthur counters, his hand tight against the back of Eames' head, pressing his mouth into something less chaste. His skin tastes clean, warm in his mouth and Eames has to close his eyes and breathe in deep the faded scent of Arthur's cologne. He swipes his tongue across his nipple and then uses his teeth before Arthur lets him pull back.

"Aren't we playing that kind of game?" Eames grins.

"Just answer me."

Eames lets his hands slide up the outside of Arthur's thighs, against skin, stopping to squeeze his hips and then continuing up that impossible curve and back to feel the lacing. Imagines Arthur putting it on himself, wearing it under that suit even as they ate lunch this afternoon with that pissy look he gave when Eames called him _dear_ , as he spoke to their current extractor and jotted down notes in his little book, as he went under and as he woke up, all with the squeeze of it keeping him pinioned straight, and groans aloud.

"You're worse than a Matryoshka doll," Eames laughs, low in his throat. "But, yes, love, I like it very much."

Arthur pulls back at that, as if to check his sincerity, then nods once, "Okay. Hold on." He shifts his weight, leaning a little to the left and the metal clasps wink in a row, caught in the light. Eames hands tighten hard, feeling the boning ( _what is it made out of?_ he wonders) press back. Arthur glances at him before he drops a red die in another tumbler, side-by-side with Eames'.

"We're both real," Eames says needlessly, his heart beating fast under his tongue. He wants to turn on as many lights as possible and lay Arthur across the bed for intensive study, but he doesn't think he could stand if he tried. His legs feel weak even sitting.

He wants to touch, wants to trace all that boning with his fingers while Arthur straddles him, see if his fingers will overlap across the network of laces when he grabs him by the waist and yanks him down. Wants to fuck Arthur standing up, Eames' fingers pushing under the edges of those stockings, face to face with Arthur unable to bend or twist away, until their sharing breath and falling down to the bed, where Eames will take him from behind, gripping the lacing to tug it tighter with every thrust. Wants to see Arthur flushed and breathless, held impossibly tighter even as he falls apart.

"Look at you," Eames whispers like he's sharing a secret in a crowded room. "Do you want me to fuck you with your knickers on, darling?"

Arthur trembles, swallows hard enough for Eames to hear it as he gives a single nod, fingers pinching tight on his shoulders. It's too much-- those dark eyes in that flushing face, the quick white of Arthur's teeth as he bites his lip. Eames nearly topples them both standing up, hands cradling the bottom swell of Arthur's ribcage when he rocks backward. Arthur looks down and smirks, which frees his lip for Eames to lean forward and lick into his mouth.

Arthur doesn't hesitate in kissing back, hard, hands at Eames' belt and pushing his clothes roughly out of the way to grip Eames' cock. Eames moans, licks Arthur's teeth and the roof of his mouth and chases after his tongue. He lets his own grip drag down to push down Arthur's pants from the back, where he can scratch blunt nails up Arthur's too perfect ass.

The choked sound that rewards him when they pull apart for air makes him do it again, in reverse, as he watches the fluttering drop of Arthur's eyelids. He starts to push them all the way down and off, but there's something-- the garters. Eames pulls back to check and, fuck, Arthur's shirt is still pushed high up on his chest, pants half-off his hips with only the head of his cock pulled free. He looks ridiculously obscene, even without a hair out of place, back rigid. Eames brings one hand around to cup Arthur's cock and rub slowly. Arthur's hands fly up to the back of Eames' head, pushing their foreheads together as they both watch the dark head of it drag the skin between Eames' thumb and forefinger back and forth.

"You're so wet," Eames says and Arthur's eyes are wide when he looks up, mouth falling open. He tilts his hips and rides Eames' hand, staring Eames right in the eye. "Wait, wait."

"What?" Arthur demands, voice hoarse. His hands tighten in Eames' hair as he distractingly rubs his lips against Eames' neck.

"This." Eames slips one finger under a garter, pulls to snap it and Arthur startles, pulling away to squint. "It's in the way," he says, all innocence. Then Arthur's fingers are sliding against his, unhooking the garters from the front and elbowing Eames in the process. Taking the hint, he undoes the back ones, sinking down to his knees and letting Arthur brace himself on his shoulders as he steps out of his pants. Eames touches his calves, feeling the muscle under all that soft fabric.

Of course that leaves Arthur's cock at face-level. Eames doesn't hesitate to lean forward and kiss the base of it as he re-hooks the garters, shifting back to take the tip into his mouth. The taste and smell, the weight of cock sliding over his tongue as Eames takes him deeper is all familiar, but the small noises Arthur can't help but make as he tries, and fails, to curl forward and the transition of stocking to bare skin under Eames hands are both new.

"Eames," Arthur says, tugging hard at his hair. "Eames, stop."

Eames pulls away, tilts his head back to look up at Arthur who shakes his head, back to biting at his lip. Eames is close enough to notice his thighs are unsteady, just starting to shake.

"Already, really?" Eames can't help the disbelief, but at the look that gets him he stands, bringing the back of Arthur's hand to his lips, all contriteness. Arthur quickly looks away, to the bed.

They rotate there even as they press close again, mouth to mouth. Arthur pushes Eames down on it, removing his trousers before stripping the last vestige of his suit. He straddles Eames with an easy grace despite the corset, the kind that usually provokes Eames into some tease, but the barest touch of Arthur's thigh to Eames' cock is too arresting. Arthur doesn't look away when he catches one hand and brings it around, to the small of his back where the knotted cord seems made to fit against Eames' fingers.

Then Arthur is leaning forward, face centimeters away. The resistance has Eames grabbing before the knot can slip away.

Arthur bares his teeth and says, "Pull."

Eames pulls.

There's little change in Arthur's expression. Instead Eames concentrates on his sharp intake, a stutter in that even, paced breathing. Over that is the soft whine of the lacing, the drag of the bed spread as Arthur fists it besides Eames' ears.

"How's that, then?" Eames checks. "More?"

Arthur pushes down onto Eames' lap, hissing a _yes_ that's cut short as Eames gives a hard tug, delighted. They take up a rhythm, Arthur grinding down as the corset constricts like a living thing under Eames' free hand, many-spined and shuddering over Arthur's panting.

"Tell me how it feels," Eames says, wanting more than touch, and Arthur laughs, sudden and deep and quick to end when Eames pulls harder.

"How do you think it feels?" Arthur asks smartly, tilting his hips into a rolling motion that has all the muscles in Eames' legs twitching.

"Oh, tight, I'm guessing," Eames gasps. He strums a finger up the crisscross along Arthur's spine, palms one of his bare shoulder blades, and buries his hand in the soft hair at Arthur's neck until he's drawn Arthur rigid over him.

"It-- stop," Arthur chokes, stilling, and Eames lets both grips relax. Arthur sighs as he sits up. It doesn't sound anything like relief. "It's more than that."

"Go on, I know you like to explain things to me."

"It's the highlight of my day. You do better with the practical, so let me demonstrate. Sit up."

They shuffle a touch awkwardly, until Arthur's legs are wrapped around Eames' waist, knees sharp even under the stockings and the double-press of his heels low on Eames' back. Leaning back on his hands, Arthur makes a lovely picture, chest pushed forward with his nipples fascinating points.

"That's quite a demonstration," Eames smiles, pinching one.

"Pay attention, Mr. Eames," Arthur demands, the press of his legs turning into a punishing embrace. That, combined with the slide of their cocks where they're crowded together, pushes all the air out of Eames' lungs.

"Yes, sir," Eames schools his grin to a more attentive expression and runs his fingers under the top of Arthur's stockings, "Or should I say Miss?"

The bruising force of Arthur's hold is worth it.

"Feel that?" Arthur asks, and Eames manages a nod, seized between Arthur's thighs. It's not an unfamiliar pressure; Arthur's come holding him this way before, nearly crushing with the body-lock of release. The difference is intent, the furrow between Arthur's eyebrows as he adjusts, relaxing only to enclose again. It's a focus Eames aims for in and out of bed and to be under it now is almost as painful as it is thrilling.

"Yeah," Eames says roughly, "I feel it."

When Eames pushes at Arthur's shoulders he falls back easy, legs unmoving to take Eames down with him. Only when Eames pinches a thigh does Arthur let go, arms coming up instead to drag Eames into a wet, dirty kiss and rubbing up against him.

When they pull apart Eames mouths at Arthur's chin, groaning, "And I used to think you were a dull boy."

"I still think you're a-- _ah_!" Arthur cries out loud before biting at Eames' chin in retaliation for Eames' hold on his cock, jacking Arthur roughly. Arthur sinks his teeth into his own hand then, trying to stifle the sounds threatening to spill out.

"Now, now," Eames grabs at Arthur's wrist, holds it down to the bed. Arthur's mouth is a startling red. "Tell me how you really feel."

His touch turns teasing, sliding over the head of Arthur's cock to play at the slit until his thumb is dripping and too tempting not to bring up for a taste. Arthur glares at Eames' mouth, wetting his own lips before pulling Eames down for a brutal kiss, as if he's chasing after the taste of himself. His wrist spasms and twists out of Eames' hold to grab his ass, shoving their hips together and running his legs up Eames' sides.

Between more kisses Arthur whispers, "I want your fingers."

Eames reaches down before he's even finished speaking, fast enough to pull something, and ignores Arthur's laughter as he fits his hand between Arthur's spread legs. Brushes past his balls to the soft skin just behind, letting his nails drag until he touches-- something slick? Eames pulls back to look at Arthur, who tilts his chin up, all raised eyebrows and without a hint of shame.

"Fuck," Eames pushes the tip of one finger in easy. "Fuck, you're-- I don't know what you are. About to give me a damn heart attack." He pushes it deep and slides the second in roughly.

"You'll survive," Arthur says, eyes closed, unmoving. Eames uses his other hand to pull at Arthur's leg until it's folded against his own chest, foot on Eames' and the tease of it's arch over Eames' nipple. He pinches the hollow of Arthur's ankle until his eyes are open, then begins to finger him hard enough for his hand to smack against Arthur's ass audibly.

"You," Arthur accuses, vicious, before he's reduced to the tiny, helpless sounds Eames likes best. His foot pushes hard enough against Eames to unseat him, but Eames quickly shoves it upward by the heel, letting momentum bring Arthur's calf to rest on his shoulder.

"I've always thought you look best with your legs in the air, don't you agree?"

Sometimes Eames can't help himself.

Arthur growls something unintelligible and then both legs are up and squeezing Eames' neck. Appreciating the show of flexibility, Eames slows his hand to lean forward against the slight give of Arthur's legs, testing it.

"You're not proving me wrong, here."

"Eames, don't ruin it with talking."

"I'm hurt! I thought you liked my mouth."

"Only when there's something in it."

"A come on? You're making me proud, darling."

"Don't flatter yourself. I certainly didn't say it for your benefit," Arthur retorts, gaze intent on Eames' mouth.

Eames laughs, then arches his fingers inside Arthur sharply again and again, enjoying Arthur's struggle to move despite being doubly bound, how he's panting hard enough that his voice catches on every exhale. Arthur's hand spiders across Eames' jaw to cover his mouth and Eames licks at the grooves of his fingers, tasting salt.

"More," Arthur says and Eames obliges.

He adds another finger with care, watching the way Arthur stretches to accommodate three, feeling his own cock twitch where it hangs heavy between his legs. Eames tilts his head until Arthur's hand falls away and twists his fingers, asking, "You brought more with you, didn't you?"

"Of course," Arthur squirms. Eames watches the flex of his shoulders, the shifting definition of his arms as he reaches across the wrinkled linens before revealing a miniature bottle like a magician. Eames isn't sure whether to laugh or start clapping, but as his hand is well occupied he settles for reaching the other out, palm up, until Arthur opens the cap and pours lube across his fingers.

"Where did you even get that?" Eames asks, letting the excess drip down to where his fingers are pressed inside Arthur before spreading it over his own cock, slow.

"I tossed it here on my way to the bathroom," Arthur explains. "The bigger bottle's still in there."

"What makes you think we won't need it?"

"I don't want it."

"What-- really?" Eames stops, ignoring the annoyed shove of Arthur's foot against the side of his head. "You're... being quite the dirty boy today."

"Eames," Arthur groans, dropping his legs so Eames can catch one in the crook of an elbow, letting him lean close enough until they're sliding against one another, Eames' cock slipping to push alongside Arthur's, until Eames can feel those hooks along Arthur's front against his stomach.

"Or should I call you a dirty girl?"

"Eames, you fucker," Arthur gasps, losing the bottle to dig his nails into Eames' shoulders. He's really blushing now and tosses his head away hard enough to (finally) dislodge the perfect order of his hair, dark across his forehead and against the bed.

"Yes, that's me," Eames says cheerfully and slides his fingers out to slide his cock in, a move Eames had to practice an embarrassing amount to get right, but pays off at the loud moan Arthur can't stop himself in time to make. Eames stills as Arthur relaxes around and underneath him, until he's glaring up at him.

"Don't look at me like that," Eames chides. "I'm waiting."

"For what?" Arthur groans, flinging an arm over his eyes, as if the sight of Eames is too much for him to bear. "Move already!"

"I want to know," Eames says slowly, watching the twitch of Arthur's frown and savoring each word, "if you're a dirty girl." It dissolves as Arthur bites down hard on his lip even as his mouth curls into a smile. Eames manages to lean forward enough to lick at it without falling over, his cock sliding a teasing millimeter in deeper. Arthur's arm jerks over his head, nearly elbowing Eames in the face, and they're both left staring at each other in a silent battle of wills. Arthur sighs.

"Yes," he says, "Yes, I'm a dirty girl, and I don't want the lube because I expect you to fuck me hard enough, to make me wet enough, that I won't need it."

Eames may be in love.

He sits up, ignoring Arthur's confused _what?_ (he might have said that bit out loud), and goes for it, thrusting in hard enough to jolt the bed, which is disappointingly solid and only gives the softest of creaks. The broken gasps coming from Arthur are more than enough to make up for it. That and the sight of him stretched out over the bed, in the corset under Eames' hands that, with the garters and stockings, frames both where his ass is full of Eames' cock and where his own cock is flushed deep. With every sharp movement it bumps against the corset's bottom edge, making Arthur spasm around Eames' cock in counterpoint.

"Harder," Arthur grits and Eames reaches up to hold his clenched jaw, his other hand pushing under Arthur's back, finding that knot and twisting. He tucks his face against Arthur's neck, breathing in deep even as Arthur breathes out under Eames' weight, and Eames can feel it, feel the corset solid and pinching narrow beneath his stomach.

Eames tries to slow down, feeling entirely too close when they've just begun, but Arthur's grunting against his ear, low and pornographic. The brush of his lips is soft against the sudden nip of his teeth and Eames makes a strangled, protesting noise as he comes, shuddering but still fucking into Arthur, who's now sucking on the lobe of his ear, possibly laughing if his shaking is anything to go by. And that. Is just. Not on.

When Eames relaxes enough to pull back Arthur doesn't even look properly regretful, in fact, you could almost say he was grinning. It's a strange sight-- a little unnerving, to be honest-- so Eames focuses on pulling out, holding him open with both thumbs. Some of Eames' come follows, leaking out, and Eames' fingers slip right in, Arthur hot and filthy and clenching around them.

"I don't think you're wet enough," Eames hums, getting comfortable. He feels like he could spend all night just like this, spreading Arthur wide with his fingers or his cock or his tongue. Better yet, some combination of the three.

"Neither do I," Arthur agrees lazily and, yeah, Eames is still half-hard but he needs at least five minutes before another go, no matter the weak but very interested twitch of his cock.

"Fingers and tongue it is," Eames moves to lay down between Arthur's spread legs, the smell of sex going straight to his head, and opens his fingers into as wide of a "V" as he can, sweeping his tongue around the rim before working in.

Arthur squeaks, jerks his hips up and Eames backs off, raising his head to see Arthur's eyes huge and dilated in the glare of lamplight.

"Too much?" Eames smirks, wiggling his fingers back and forth, quick. He can taste his own come on his lips.

Arthur's hands are insistent on the back of his head, shoving him back down and Eames removes his fingers to hold the back of Arthur's knees up, ignoring the sharp snap of something against his shoulder. He uses his whole mouth until Arthur starts babbling _yes_ and _oh god_ and _feels so good_ , not stopping until his voice breaks.

Then he's sitting back up to take in the sight of Arthur halfway undone, chest turned red and straining in it's binding, but when Eames drops a hand to pull at the top hook, Arthur is quick to knock it away.

"No," he says, shaky. "It's not coming off until we're done."

Eames doesn't question him, but lets Arthur's legs drop to the bed as he catches his breath. His attention is drawn down to where Arthur is touching a rip in his stocking, the tangle of the broken garter looking forlorn where it lays against the bed.

"Oh," Eames starts, unsure, "sorry about your knickers, love."

"You should be," Arthur agrees, but he doesn't sound at all upset as he continues, "but I do have others."

"Others?" Eames perks up. "How many _others_ are there?"

"A few, though I don't think any will fit you," Arthur says, giving Eames' waist a measuring look.

Eames hums a vague agreement, imagining Arthur's no-doubt efficient touch with a measure tape, and runs his hands up Arthur's legs. "For today I prefer something more... organic."

"Ha ha," Arthur says, monotone, and sits up to release the unbroken garter. Eames assists, sliding off the stockings slowly, one at a time, with only his nails touching bare skin. It makes the muscles in Arthur's thighs do interesting things.

"Now," Arthur says, rising up between Eames' legs, "lay back." He straddles a thigh, cock settling hard against Eames' hip and his knee tucking up between Eames' thighs. The friction when he rocks forward has them both shuddering. Eames pulls at Arthur's back, the top of the corset pressing against his wrists, and groans, tilts his head back to try and and regain focus but with Arthur over him it's pure impossibility. Arthur's mouth is insistent at Eames' neck, biting when Eames reaches to push his fingers into Arthur. He feels brilliant, all slicked up inside and Eames thinks _that's from me_ and adds another finger as Arthur fucks back onto them, cock leaking wet trails across Eames' skin.

Eames finds himself saying a manner of all things into the air between them, anything he can think of, promises that make Arthur's eyes go hooded and his movements sharp, urgent. When he stops to climb up Eames' body, settling over his hips, he looks down at Eames with all the dignity of a sovereign on his throne.

"Ready?" he asks and Eames can only nod, hold Arthur open with both hands as Arthur reaches back to steady his cock, dropping slowly. He's not wet enough to take it fast, and Eames has to fight not to push up into all that burning heat.

Arthur, as if sensing Eames' struggle, takes his arms and draws them over his head, interlaces their fingers together in an uncompromising hold. Eames can feel his own heartbeat in every finger, and knows Arthur can feel it too.

"You have me at your mercy," Eames means to tease, but it comes out too breathless and sounds only honest.

"I have you," Arthur acknowledges, laughing, and begins to ride Eames in earnest.

It's like Arthur comes alive over him, his face flushed and animated, a sweat breaking out over his forehead. Eames' body responds in kind, their skin catching where they touch-- at his sides where Arthur's folded legs are crowded close and at his hips where Arthur's ass clenches against him and at his hands where their palms are pressed intimate.

Arthur speeds up, and Eames knows he's close already, can tell just from the soft _ah, ah, ah_ that spills out of where his mouth has dropped open. They can barely be heard over the loud slap of their skin and Eames' gaze goes to where he can see quick glimpses of his own cock disappearing into Arthur, behind where Arthur's cock bobs, swollen heavy.

"Let me touch you," Eames begs and Arthur drops his head, back unbent and posture solid even as he comes all over Eames' stomach, squeezing his hands until they hurt. Arthur is still shuddering when Eames squirms, tugs at where Arthur has him pinned, and then Arthur starts to move like he did before and Eames cannot-- he has to--

"Arthur," Eames says, voice ragged to his own ears, "Arthur, dearest, let me." And Arthur unpins Eames' hands, mouth tugged crooked as Eames yanks him down and swallows his startled shout. They switch, Arthur falling onto his stomach and turning his face to watch Eames from the corner of his eye as he pushes back in, settling into hard thrusts that make them both grunt. Eames catches sight of the black cutting across Arthur's waist, at the diamonds of skin he can see under the lacing, and Eames has to look away, hiding his face against Arthur's shoulder.

And then, just as he starts to lose all control, he feels something touch his hand and he's unraveling, coming as he realizes it's Arthur's little finger, hooked around his thumb.

Eames manages to fall onto his back beside Arthur and not on top of him, winded and still twitching. Arthur sounds worse, dazed and nearly sobbing and Eames helps him onto his back to undo the corset's front. The hooks are tiny and keep slipping between his fingers but Arthur slows his fumbling to undo them himself. Underneath, Arthur's skin is pinched an angry red and Eames rubs at the indentations left behind.

He leaves his hand there as they doze, both too weak to move until their sticky skin cools off and discomfort drives them to separate. Arthur goes into the bathroom to clean up and Eames watches him go, sighing at all that naked, marked skin.

Eames pulls off the bed spread, checking the linen underneath for dampness before rummaging through a closet for an extra blanket. He tucks it under the end corners haphazardly, then follows Arthur to where he's standing at one of the sinks, corset in hand. He isn't acknowledged as he uses the toilet, Arthur's brow furrowed as he dabs at the material with a tissue.

"Not stained, is it?" Eames asks while washing his hands, and Arthur shrugs, giving it up to fold the corset over his arm.

"I'll have to take it to the cleaners," Arthur says, lips pursed.

Eames pauses, asks, "With your suits?"

"Yes?" Arthur says slowly, raising an eyebrow as if that's obvious. Eames is too distracted to respond, thinking about that unmistakable, black slip of fabric pressed clean amidst Arthur's suits and ties. Arthur leaves as Eames dries his hands, smirking at his reflection. A bite mark is already showing high up on his neck, the imprint of teeth near exact.

When Eames comes back to bed Arthur's already under the covers, face illuminated by the display of his mobile. Eames flops onto the bed, crawling under the blanket when Arthur pushes at him with his foot. They both get comfortable, a hand's width of space between them, and Eames is considering saying something about the light, or just leaning over Arthur to turn it off himself, when Arthur speaks.

"I'm visiting Cobb, after this." His eyes stay trained on the mobile even when Eames goes up on one elbow to give him a proper look. "I haven't seen him for some time and he mentioned Phillipa and James missing me, and... our next job isn't for another week."

"Oh yeah?" Eames says, leaning closer.

"Yes. He also said you're welcome to come if you're not otherwise engaged."

"Are you playing Cobb's messenger?" Eames breathe out, eager to see Arthur's face twitch as the small hairs behind his ear stir. "Or are you inviting me on a little vacation?"

Arthur is silent long enough for Eames to start to pull back, a trifle disappointed, but then Arthur reaches out, his thumb pressing into the soft skin of Eames' elbow. He says, "I want you to go. With me."

"All you had to do was say so, darling," Eames says, warm and sleepy enough to ignore Arthur's faint, "I'm not your darling."

 _A little late for all that_ , Eames thinks as Arthur turns off the lamp. Eames steals a share of his pillow, pulling him close, with only the sound of Arthur's breathing to rise up and close around him in the dark.

* * *

Eames hears a soft, intermittent hissing sound, half-familiar enough to rouse him awake. When he opens his eyes he sees Arthur ironing, dressed only in another pair of those little pants, with faint puffs of steam curling around his elbows. It's still dark, with only the light from the bathroom casting shadows over Arthur's back, but from what Eames can see beyond the windows the sky is that vivid blue before dawn.

Eames is content enough to watch the play of light over Arthur's shoulders and how the ends of his hair are curling and wet against the back of his neck, but, when he lifts up his shirt to inspect the collar, his fingers smoothing over it are too much like a caress for Eames not to clear his throat.

"You can do mine as well," Eames says, just to provoke the look Arthur sends him over his shoulder.

"Do you intend to layabout all morning, Mr. Eames? We do have a flight to catch."

"The sun's not even up!" Eames protests, but he rolls off the bed, laughing. He heads for the shower, body aching in all the pleasant ways as Arthur's heads turns to follow him across the room and something unnameable swells inside him.

They go through their morning routines, reflections smeared in the fogged mirrors to two strangers dancing around one another as they trade off in front of the double sink. They argue about breakfast as they dress, settling on a café appropriately named _L'Heure Bleue_ they both remember passing last night, though only Arthur recalls the name. As they begin to pack away their clothes and toiletries, totems falling from their tumblers to settle into pockets, Arthur stops to kiss Eames, licking a missed spot of toothpaste at the corner of his mouth. They share the taste of it between them, a sweetness spreading over their tongues.

On their way out Eames helps Arthur into his coat, smoothing it over his shoulders just to see them under his hands. Arthur tucks Eames' scarf around his neck in return, with only the slightest twist of his mouth to show his disapproval of the obnoxiously green pattern. The kiss of his fingertips against Eames' jaw is aching and Eames cannot help but catch one of Arthur's hands and bring it to his lips.

Arthur's fingers curl around his and hold tight.


End file.
